Darrell Bain - The Melanin Apocalypse

President Marshall tapped his fingertips on the table. “Let’s move on, it’s getting late. What else do you have, Edgar?”

“Just Russia. I think they’ll hold together, but I can’t say as much for some of her neighbors. I think we may have to ask them to keep some sort of order there, much as I hate the thought.”

“All right. Do as you think best, but don’t let them get the idea they’re going to become a world power again. Do you agree, Cantrell?”

The new Secretary of State nominee still felt out of place at the seat of power and was reluctant to voice his opinion, particularly since he thought both the president and General Newman were making decisions the vast majority of the electorate would disagree with, and the rest of the world would be aghast at.

Some of what they said he considered little short of criminal. There was one point he agreed with, though. “Sir, I concur with the decision to let the Russian government handle any unrest or destructive situations on their immediate borders. But can’t the Europeans help?”

“If they’ll spend the money and supply the troops, certainly. I doubt seriously they will, though. They’re as broke as us.”

“And don’t have much in the way of armed forces anyway. Too much spending on welfare.” General Newman commented, thinking to himself they were getting what they deserved now.

“Suppose I try and see what I can come up with?”

“Fine, you do that. What else?”

Cantrell Willingham had the impression that the president was catering to him, but he pressed on, furrowing his high patrician forehead with the kind of wrinkles women thought attractive on older men.

“Sir, I’d like to at least try to improve relations with the South American states. I’ve already ordered our ambassadors to approach the appropriate governments to inquire about the attitudes and feelings of their citizens. If we can…” He was interrupted by the vibration of his personal phone, the one he carried so that he could be notified immediately of emergencies in real time. “Excuse me, sir. This must be another bad crisis.” He listened for a moment and hurriedly hung up when he saw the irritated look on the president’s face. Apparently he had violated protocol by taking a call in the Oval Office.

“That was our embassy in Brazil. Their army just took it over.”

“What! Damn it, that’s an act of war!” General Newman roared. “Edgar, damn you, why weren’t we warned?”

Tomlin shrank from the General’s wrath. He didn’t have a clue. Almost all of his field agents were busy in the Middle East or Africa, trying to keep abreast of problems there. “I don’t know General, but I’ll find out.”

President Marshall got to his feet. “Gentlemen, Marlene. It’s late. Let’s break this up and reconvene in the morning. General, keep me abreast of any decisions you make about our armed forces.”

It was a dismissal.

The vice president was thinking furiously as she hurried back to her own office. It sounded to her as if the president and his Chairman of the Joint Chiefs were in collusion, making decisions and taking actions that in calmer times would only have occurred with congressional consultation and approval. She reviewed the articles of martial law as she understood them. Most people might think it gave the president unlimited powers, and it did to a certain extent—but only within the country’s own borders. It had nothing to do with the rest of the world. When Santes arrived at her office, she began looking over her own intelligence reports to see if they were in agreement with the presidential briefing.

General Newman hadn’t mentioned what was going on in Atlanta during the briefing. He hoped to get the situation under control again now that the army brigade, less one battalion, had parachuted into the suburbs and the Marine battalion was rolling down the interstate in that direction as rapidly as possible.

By nine o’clock in the morning Doug began receiving both casualties and stragglers from the company of soldiers guarding the approaches to the CDC complex. Seeing the exhausted white faces above the collars of their army fatigues, streaked with dirt and rivulets of sweat, along with the blood and agonized sounds of pain, revived flashes of memory from combat he had seen in the past. He shook off the images and tried to help as best he could.

He sent the casualties into the ward where patients with the Harcourt virus were receiving experimental treatment. Those not too seriously hurt were bandaged and thrown back into the fight with his own men.

He allowed no objections. Usually all it took was mention of the fate they would suffer should the complex be overrun—and that there was no place to retreat to.

The able bodied soldiers were hustled to the barricades, thrown up as far from the complex as possible.

He hoped they could stop the onslaught before the mob invaded the CDC buildings, but he was beginning to suspect they weren’t dealing with a disorganized mob, as first thought. The soldiers reported the attacks on their positions bore a resemblance to standard infantry tactics rather than attempts to overcome them with sheer numbers and madness. He reported that observation to Gene, who was making rounds of all the posts, using his presence to encourage the troops to hold fast.

All morning the gunfire had been growing in volume, becoming louder as it got closer. An hour ago, the single transport chopper attempting to bring in reinforcements to the company of soldiers went down in flames from a direct hit by a missile. He watched the whole thing, seeing his rising hope of relief vanish quickly as the streaking trail of the shoulder fired missile tracked directly into the chopper. From what he saw, there couldn’t possible have been any survivors.

“Goddamn bastards!” Buddy Hawkins, the former Marine, exclaimed from where he was checking the light machine gun bunker. “So much for the army getting us some help.”

“Maybe not,” Doug said. He left Buddy and went to check on the next barricade. But no other helicopters appeared overhead and the last he heard, the airport was still in the hands of the rampaging blacks. No communication was being received from there, boding ill for the airport staff. As he went about his rounds, he had a fleeting thought that it was too bad the CDC complex was so close to several of the largest black communities; had it been situated on the other side of the city he thought they might have gotten more help from the white citizens. He quickly dismissed the wishful thinking; it did no good at all.

Back at his combat headquarters, set up just outside the front entrance of the science building, he put a finger over his ear to help him hear what Amelia was saying on his phone.

“Doug, we’re taking fire in the administrative building! Can’t you do something?” Her voice was strained with fright and worry.

“Which direction is it coming from?” Doug’s own voice, calm up until now, almost broke over his own worry. He hadn’t heard from June. So far as he knew she was still with Amelia.

“We’re on the west side of the Administrative building. All the windows are shot out on this floor. Doug! I can see soldiers! They’re running back this way!”

“Stay down and hang on! I’ll send some troops. Are the staff down on the first floor?”

“Yes! I can hear them shooting from here!”

“How about the spotter I put up there?”

“He’s dead. I sent someone up to check on him and they said he took a bullet in the head while he was trying to see what was happening.”

Doug gritted his teeth and asked the next question. “How long ago did that happen?”